Comfortably Numb
by Emmy-loo
Summary: AU. 'She appreciates the numbness. She doesn’t love anything anymore, even something so trivial as the lack of feeling, so she appreciates it instead.' Ginny's reaction to the sixth month anniversary of Harry's death.


**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is the wonderful work of J.K. Rowling – I am not attempting to steal him, only borrowing him for a bit.

Comfortably Numb

She appreciates the numbness. She doesn't love anything anymore, even something so trivial as the lack of feeling, so she appreciates it instead. Though it seems there are very few things that she can appreciate anymore, either, numbness being one of the few.

The cold helps. Though there is no snow, the November chill is plenty gloomy. The leaves have long since left the trees and what green there was in the grass has died. No color, no life, just… there. She thinks it an oddly appropriate metaphor. The numbness is in her fingers and toes as well, as her heart, today – she's a matching set now. Numbness in her hands and feet - spreading upwards just as the numbness inside is, from her heart to her thoughts.

She hears her mum calling her name from some distance away, and is startled when she is, apparently, right behind her. She doesn't notice much anymore.

"Come on inside, dear, or at least put a coat on. You'll catch your death in this weather."

She doesn't laugh, because nothing has been funny since It had happened. She doesn't smile, because those muscles haven't seemed to work since It had happened, instead producing some bitter grimace whenever it was required of them to express joy. But some part of her finds dark humor in her mother's words. What if catching her death is exactly what she wants to do?

-:-

There seems to be very little point in anything anymore, especially today. She usually does a good job pretending, but there are some days when she just _can't._ She can already tell today will be one of those days, though there is good reason. Why go out and pretend that she is recovering, when it really isn't true?

The nest she has made with her blankets is warm, if not comforting. The blue quilt she's had since she was born, and her parents were expecting another boy, is wrapped around her shoulders, with the one her mum had knitted her as an extra Christmas gift the year she was the only one at home wrapped around her toes. ("Don't tell anyone, dearie, I just didn't have the time to make six for the boys.") She's charmed her mattress to stay at a nice, warm temperature, one of the few bits of magic she's done since she's been legal. She is wearing the sweater from last Christmas, and has pillows surrounding her, protecting her, if not from the cold, then from the memories.

-:-

She can't look at most of her things anymore. He had only been in her room once, and most of the things in it bare no connection to him, but somehow every single item there makes her think of him.

Her Weird Sisters poster? The Yule Ball, and how she wished she could've gone with him, at least at first, until Neville asked her and she had fun even though he stepped on her toes.

Arnold, her Pygmy Puff? An afternoon spent together in the common room, with her cooing and him being about as emotional as a bloke gets about those things. She had said Arnold was cute and he said absently, still playing with Arnold, "Yes, yes you are."

Her poster of Gwenog Jones? That was obvious, even if the Harpies were an all-girls team. He'd loved Quidditch, one of the things he'd been naturally good at...one of the things they'd shared.

-:-

It's Hermione who finds her first. Everyone else has come and gone, not noticing that the pile of blankets on her bed is actually her, wrapped up from head to toe, scarcely moving. She's climbed in next to her, letting a breeze of cool air past, hitting her toes before re-fluffing the nest.

Hermione hasn't said anything since she's been in here, and for that she is thankful. She doesn't have anything to say. The ones who'd been in here before were all looking for her for the service, but she isn't going. Not to this one, not to the next one, not to the ones in years after that. No service could capture him correctly, remember him correctly with all the fancy words they would use like HERO and NOBLE and SAVIOR and LIBERATOR OF THE WIZARDING WORLD all of the things he never wanted to be.

Ron finds them next, now that the lump is bigger and now noticeably _not_ just a pile of blankets. He hasn't said anything either, just walks out for a moment before coming back and sitting on one of her pillows, next to Hermione's feet.

It is quiet for a while, the sounds of the Burrow faded comfortably into the background. She focuses on the sound of Ron and Hermione's breathing rather than thinking. Today is not a day for wandering thoughts. She almost drifts off, but catches herself. Nor is today a day for dreams.

The three of them sit together, not reminiscing, just taking comfort in the other's presence as the three people who knew him best. They did this the first month afterward too, but in the past few she's been alone. Ron and Hermione try harder to pretend than she does. Maybe it helps, she muses, that they have each other.

Ron starts snoring softly and the trance of tranquility is broken. She looks out the window instead. The sky seems to know how she feels. No sun, no warmth, no more light. No blue, no happiness, only grey from horizon to horizon. She thinks it eerily appropriate for the six month anniversary of Harry Potter's death.

* * *

_AN: This struck me the other morning, and I had to get it down. If anyone's interested, I have a vague plan about somewhere this could go, but otherwise it will stay a one-shot. Don't forget to review!_


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